


Expensive holes to bury things

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, BAMF Stiles, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Bottom Derek, Check endnotes for warnings, Fashion & Couture, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Model Stiles, Mystery, New York City, POV Derek, Stiles likes wearing heels and lipstick, Writer Derek, booty shorts, cause they give away the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-22 15:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3734461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days Derek thinks his life would be infinitely less complicated if he hadn't bought the condo simply because he got a deal when the previous owner murdered his wife.</p><p>Or the one where Derek is a jaded author of thriller novels, fascinated with the mysterious boy next door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will be added when I post the second chapter. Everything's already written out, I'm just hemming and hawing over which ending I should pick: happy or bittersweet?
> 
> Title from Queens of the Stone Age's If I Had a Tail.

"Lydia, I'm not writing Gale and Melanie into a relationship, no matter how much the fans 'ship' it."  Derek frustrates, talking to his persistent editor on the phone as he carries his suitcase into the elevator.  He presses the button for the ninth floor, and the door dings, closing.

"It would be a good choice, they have red hot chemistry."  Lydia argues, pushing her insane idea to hook up a character he intends to kill off with his lead.

"If I make them fall in love we'll have a mutiny on our hands when Cobb murders Melanie."  The doors open to his floor, and Derek walks out of the lavish elevator.  The new building is a huge step up from his previous lodgings in Brooklyn, where he had to put up with a loud jazz dancer for an upstairs neighbor, practicing into the wee hours of the morning. 

Derek's unashamed to says he's happy with the look of his new place.  Laura had found him the listing, calling it an appropriate buy for a thriller writer.  Derek's just glad he managed to purchase the gentrified condo at a steep discount because the previous owner murdered his wife in the kitchen. 

He isn't concerned with the condo's history, all he cares about is that they replaced the blood splattered appliances with brand-spanking-new stainless steel ones.  He's never owned a dishwasher before, and he intends to make full use of its wash and dry cycles.

"Then don't have Cobb murder Melanie."  Lydia argues like it's the most obvious resolution.

Derek's keys jangle as he twists the key in the lock.  "I've been planning her death since before I introduced her.  Romance is not fucking with my plot, Lydia."

"Fine."  His editor groans.  "Do what you want with Melanie.  But just please give Gale a relationship that doesn't end after one night."

"She's not the relationship type."  She's a strong, independent bisexual woman who doesn't need a man or a woman.  Derek throws his keys onto the kitchen counter before dumping his suitcase among the boxes the movers brought up.

"Derek..."  Lydia threatens.

"No.  And that's final."  He hangs up on her, tossing his phone onto his plastic wrapped leather couch before collapsing down on it, the plastic squeaking against the leather.

It's been a long day.

He wakes up a few hours later, the sun having gone down, bathing the condo in darkness.  Derek gets up, and scratches his belly walking across the plush carpet to the bathroom.

Freshly showed, with a towel wrapped around his waist, he picks up his cell, and dials an order for his favourite Indian place.  Before moving Derek made sure to pack a six pack of beer, but no non perishables, and it really shows where his priorities lie. 

He gets down to unpacking and cutting off the protective plastic covering most of his furniture.  Thirty minutes in, the landline rings, and he buzzes the delivery boy up, paying for his food and tipping the teen an extra ten bucks.  The same kid always makes sure to slip him spare mint raita, knowing how much he loves it, and how much he tips when he sees the familiar green dixie cup.  Derek is nothing if not grateful.  Besides he understands what it's like to work a part time dead end job with no prospects.  He still hates Target with a burning passion for ruining his formative years.

Taking a break from unpacking, Derek eats his food, wishing he thought to call the phone company to get his internet set up ahead of time.  By the time the sun rises, most of his stuff is out of the boxes piling up and making a mountain of trash by the front door.  Derek figures it's about time he tossed out all the trash before he drowns in it. 

He's got all the stuff tied up in bundles, leaning against the corridor wall as he locks his door, when the elevator dings.  "Whoa, you're not very environmentally friendly, are you?"  Derek looks up at a crooked jawed boy smiling jovially.  "You must be the new neighbor."  He holds out his hand.  "Scott McCall."

Derek shakes the offered hand.  "Derek."

"Cool."  Scott looks around at the bundles by their feet.  "Need some help?"

They throw the last of the bundles into the recycling, and Derek wipes his sweaty brow with a forearm.  "Thanks for the help."

"No problem, dude."  Scott waves his thanks away.  "My mom always says, do a good deed, and someone will return it thricefold.  I like to help others whenever I can."  Scott grins like a puppy.

"Smart woman."  Derek nods.  "Do you drink?  I have some beer, if you want?"  He offers.

Scott frowns and raises his arms, palms up, backing away like Derek asked him if wanted to come in and snort a line.  "Oh no, man, sorry.   If Stiles smelled alcohol on my breath, we'd have a situation on our hands.  Anyway, it was nice meeting you.  Bye."  He waves as he rushes past Derek into the building, not bothering to hold the elevator for him.  Weird as fuck, not to mention rude.

He has to wait a whole eternity for the second elevator to descend after it seems like it was stuck on the sixth floor for an extended period of time.  The doors eventually open to a dark man, and blonde woman, wrapped up passionately in each other's arms, seeming completely and utterly enamored with each other.  The woman catches him watching, and winks.  Derek rolls his eyes at her, and strides into the waiting elevator, only to be hit with a odiferous wall smelling of sex.

Derek decides to forgo the elevator, and the woman's lewd giggles chase him all the way to the staircase.

He pulls a beer out of the fridge, and collapses down on his sofa.

He wonders who Scott's Stiles is, and why there would be a situation if he caught Scott drinking.  Derek figures Stiles is probably a overbearing boyfriend who won't let Scott have any fun.  Derek gulps down his bottle of pale ale.  It feels so good to be unattached.  Derek loves not being in a relationship. 

After the fuckup with Jennifer, and the shitstorm that was Kate, Derek's sworn off dating for life.  He likes to go out for a once in a blue moon fuck, picking up a stranger in a bar, and going back to their place for a night of anonymous sex, making sure to sneak out before they wake up, all too happy to never see their face again.

It's a good life.

So in the evening when Derek feels that _itch_ , the one that tells him he needs to get laid, stat.  He takes a long, thorough shower, and digs out his favourite pair of butt hugging jeans, absolutely guaranteed to make sure his ass gets some tonight. 

Before he leaves, he makes sure to bring a half open box of condoms and some packets of lube to store in his car for the night.

Derek's locking up when his neighbor's door clicks open and a boy strides out.  He's wearing black pumps, the red heels recognizable as the expensive Louboutins Laura drools over, and Derek raises his brow.  Queens never fail to spice things up.

Charcoal skinny jeans and a dark and deep v neck top, show off the boy's lean physique, and his whole look is tied together with a splash of wine red lipstick.  The boy's dark hair is buzzed, making his cheekbones stand out in prominence. 

He swings his hips as he walks past Derek in the hallway, not bothering to greet him, let alone look at him.  Derek tries not to stare at his ass, but he can't resist, it's like the boy wants him to look with the way he moves.

Derek walks after the boy and joins him in the wait for the elevator.  They both say nothing, but the silence doesn't feel remotely oppressive or awkward,  strangely enough it feels comfortable.  When it arrives, the boy presses the button for the first level of parking, before pressing the button for the second level as well, the place where Derek parks the Camaro.

Derek raises his brow, but he's ignored, instead a faint smile appears on the boy's face, softening it so his cheekbones don't seem so sharp.  The elevator dings again and the boy exits, waving,  "Have a nice night, neighbor."  The doors shut before Derek can say anything in return.

Derek drives to a popular gay club, parking in one of the free spots close to the entrance.  Derek doesn't drink when he goes out to get laid, it's one of his top ten rules.  He doesn't want anything to fuck up his ability to judge people.

He quickly spots a skinny man with a buzz cut eyeing him from the bar, he winks at the man, and calls the bartender to send a drink over.  When the man takes a sip of the simple rum and coke, his eyes locked on him, Derek makes his way over.  Loosely taking the man's hand, Derek leads him over to the dance floor. 

The man starts to dance, pressing his ass, and grinding up on Derek's front, but Derek quickly switches their positions, stepping in front of the man.  He tries not to think of red lips wrapped around his cock as the man eagerly thrusts up behind him.

Derek wakes to an empty bed.  The sound of a running shower snaps him out of his confused daze.  Usually he's the first to wake after a one night stand, since he likes to avoid the small talk, promises, and exchange of phone numbers.  He never sleeps well enough in a stranger's bed for him to doze through his bed partner jostling him as they get up.  This is a first, and Derek figures it must've been the expensive memory foam mattress he got a taste for last night as the man pressed his face into it when he fucked him. 

Luckily, by the time Derek gathers up his clothes, and finds his phone, he's out of the door before the shower shuts off,  making his way to the Camaro he drove from the club last night.

An hour later, Derek's in the lobby, checking his mail when the boy from last night walks into the building, whistling well in tune.

"He's a _smoooth_ operator."  The boy croons as he presses his access card to the reader, buzzing himself in.  He's dressed in what can only be described as jogging booty shorts and a loose muscle tee hanging off his lean frame, showing off a barely-there physique and soft, pale skin.  Derek's trying hard to not stare at his long, hairless legs, tucked into pricey adidas, as the boy sings along with the music in his earphones, once again ignoring Derek's presence as he walks into the building.

Derek rolls his eyes.  It's like the boy lives to be flamboyant, he's probably a model, if his fashionable footwear and height are anything to go by.  Besides, he walks like he belongs on a runway.  Derek is curious, so sue him, he makes his living off of human inquisitiveness. 

After throwing out all the junk mail polluting his box, he walks up to the building directory, touching the screen and searching through the list by apartment number.  Finding the apartment listed next to his, he clicks on it, and oh.  Stiles, with no listed last name.  So, that's who Scott's boyfriend is.

Funny enough, they don't seem like they're each other's type.  While Scott looks like he shops at the thrift store for most of his clothing, Stiles appears completely put together, like he knows how to coordinate outfits and colours.  Derek can tell he works in the fashion industry.  Either as a model or a designer, only someone with a high paying job like that could afford to purchase a condo in this building.  No intern could even dream to afford the sky high property taxes.

Derek makes his way upstairs, and takes a shower, washing away his walk of shame, and last night's activities, the soapy water swirling as it goes down the drain, the water pressure heavenly on the bruises on his hips, but also stinging the scratches.  It's like he went home with a cat last night, that man had vicious claws.

His landline rings when he steps out, steam billowing around him, and he buzzes the cable guy upstairs, quickly throwing on a tee and sweats.  He types away at his new manuscript while he waits for the guy to set everything up.  Derek just about cries when he clicks into Chrome and finds the familiar Google homepage staring back at him.  He nearly offers the cable guy a beer, but then remembers that the man's on the job, and Derek doesn't want the guy to get fired because of him.  So he just thanks him, and shows him out.

So now Derek's left with a free afternoon, and the whole of the internet to explore.  Eventually his curiosity overwhelms him and he types 'Stiles' into Google, interested to see if his theory was right or not.  All that pops up are images of Julia Stiles, and door stiles.  So maybe Stiles is a nickname?  After all, who would name their kid Stiles? And besides, it's not as if Derek has a last name to go on.  The directory only listed his first name.  Or, is Stiles his last name? 

Derek exits out of his browser, frustrated, his curiosity chewing away at him.

He clicks into his word processing program, and starts typing.  Eight hours later under the setting sun, Derek has about 20k worth of new material to be edited, condensed and added to his new novel.  Frustration always had a tendency to make him binge write.  Laura calls it one of his most admirable qualities.

Derek stretches his arms over his head, groaning and bemoaning his stiff muscles.  Turning thirty this past Christmas was the worst decision he's ever made.  But at least he had a better reaction than Laura.  When she turned the big three-o, she showed up at his apartment with six pints of Häagen-Dazs and a duffle bag full of bungee equipment. 

Derek had just barely managed to convince her that just because she was aging didn't mean she had to go out and do all the stereotypical life threatening shit she should've done in her early twenties.  Only crazy people jump off bridges with a simple rubber band separating them from certain death.

He rises from his tucked in position on the couch and walks to his crime scene kitchen, fetching a beer from the fridge.  One of the things he loves so much about this condo, not including the shiny new appliances, is the view.  It's hard to get a good apartment in New York that isn't blocked by another high-rise. 

This condo has an unobstructed view of central park in the west.  Derek can watch dog walkers, and joggers and happy little squirrels prance around to their hearts content, and along with the setting sun, it's wonderful.

Derek walks out onto his balcony, bringing his beer and enjoying the scenic setting sun.  There's a woman wearing a fur boa that looks like it was made from the brothers and sisters of the Pomeranian dragging her, and Derek laughs, he fucking loves New York.

By the time his bottle of beer only has a drop or two left in its name, he's bored.  He's about to call it a day, grab another beer and settle in for an exciting episode of Hell's Kitchen with his spirit animal, the venerable Gordon Ramsey, yelling some poor sod's ear off, when he spots a familiar pair of booty shorts.

Apparently, Stiles doesn't simply settle for morning runs, but evening as well.  He's not even jogging, he's running like the devil himself is snapping at his heels.

Derek studies Stiles' impeccable running posture until he disappears into the tree line, only then does Derek go back inside, making sure to leave the door cracked to let in the fresh midsummer night air.  He can deal with a few bugs if it means not turning on the freezing air conditioning.

Derek hates the artificial cold.  As a kid, he practically grew up at his family's cottage in upstate New York, where their early 20th century lakehouse didn't have such technologically progressive amenities as air conditioning.  He doesn't think he'll ever get used to it, no matter how much the city roasts him alive in the summer.

He cherishes those days in the summer when the whole Hale brood gets together and makes the yearly trip up to the lakehouse.  Laura never fails to turn each and every trip into a which-side-of-the-family-is-more-successful competition with the cousins.  They have Cora, who always counts as an automatic win for them.  It's only the day she's booted out of office that they'll lose.

Being the brother of New York's mayor has only one perk: he gets a free MetroCard in the mail each month, something he never uses because he prefers to take a taxi if he can't drive somewhere.  Laura, on the other hand, never fails to complain about the lack of tax breaks she should get as the sister of the mayor.  But then again, she's a restaurant critic so it's in her job description to do nothing but complain. 

Their mother jokes it's in her DNA.  That she gets it from their grandmother; a woman who does nothing, but complain.  Grandma Vera loves to rant, whether it's about Derek and his homosexual tendencies, or Laura and her decision to not have children, or even Cora and her bill to introduce more bike lanes.  He always make sure to avoid her during reunions because she never fails to try and set him up with a 'nice' girl from her parish.

The last time Derek was set up with a 'nice' girl, Jennifer tried to murder him in his sleep after he said wanted to sign a pre-nup before they got married.

Derek's never had any luck with 'nice' girls.

Derek settles down on his couch, and tunes in to new episode of Hell's Kitchen Uncensored, eventually falling asleep to Gordon Ramsey calling a contestant a smarmy cunt.

Derek wakes in the morning with his face stuck to leather and a little pile of drool, and he realizes he hasn't ever slept on his bed since moving in. 

He's in the kitchen frying up the eggs he went down to the corner bodega to buy when someone knocks on his door.

"Hiya, neighbor."  The blonde woman who, a few days ago, turned the elevator into her own personal bedroom stands outside.  He's just about to shut the door in her face when she shoves a plate of food into his hands.  "Apology waffles?" 

He waves her in.  Derek fucking loves waffles.

Turns out her name is Erica Reyes, and her husband, Boyd, plays for the Giants.  If Derek actually paid attention to football, he would be ecstatic to discover he lives in the same building as the star quarterback, but he's personally always been more of a baseballer.

Her waffles are worth the apology and her inquisitions into his love life, but he almost spits them out when she unsubtly asks him if he'd like to partake in a threesome with her and her husband, something Derek shoots down in a heartbeat.

"So I've told you all about me, what do you do?"  She sprinkles chili powder over her waffles and it sticks to the chocolate sauce she drowned them in, Derek doesn't say a word since her stilettos look like they could easily kill him.

"You told me all about your husband, nothing about yourself."  Derek helpfully points out.

"Isn't it obvious, I'm a football waifu."  She flips her hair, like she's proud of her trophy wife status.

"Nice to know your contribution to the economy consists of you spending your husband's money."  Derek says sarcastically.

"Hey!  I have an Etsy store."  She says, offended.

Derek rolls his eyes.  "Oh yeah?  Selling what, hand knitted scarves?"

"Fuck no."  Erica snorts.  "I make custom electric basses."

Derek gapes.  "Well that's better than knitting."  He admits.

"Fuck yeah, it is."  She exclaims around a mouthful of waffle.

"I write."  He says cutting into his eggs.

She grins deviously.  "Porn?"

Derek drops his fork with a clatter.  "Thrillers."  He growls at her.

She raises her palms in surrender.  "Hey, a girl can assume."

"I'm a New York Times bestselling author, so,"  he points his butter knife threateningly at her,  "don't assume."

"Geez, don't get your panties in a twist, nothing wrong with porn."  She forks a piece of waffle, looking down at her plate she mumbles.  "You're almost worse than Stiles."

Derek's ears perk up.  "Stiles?"

"Yeah..."  She raises her eyebrow condescendingly.  "Stiles, your next door neighbor."

"I know who he is."  He rolls his eyes.  "We just haven't talked much."

"Now, I find that hard to believe.   When I first met him, he'd never shut up for even a moment."

"Huh..."

 "What?"  She asks.

"He's barely spoken more than a few words to me."

She hums.  "That is weird.  I should probably call Scott."

Derek remembers the crooked jaw boy.  "His boyfriend?"

She erupts into a fit of giggles.  "Scott?  Stiles' boyfriend?  Scott's so far out of Stiles' league it's practically cosmic."

"Then who is he?"  Derek asks, puzzled.

"That's just something you'll have to find out for yourself."  She winks at him before pulling out her phone, hitting a number on speed dial.  "Hey Scotty boy, I think you need to go rummage through Stiles' closet, stat."

Derek's jaw drops.  What even?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to leave you hanging, so I separated the last chapter into two, I know I'm evil.  
> Everything shall be revealed, and I've chosen the ending ;)

Before leaving, Erica invites Derek out to drinks that evening with some of her friends from the building.  He reluctantly accepts when she threatens to take him to her workshop and run him through with the table saw.  She's almost as bad as Laura, Derek shudders to think about what would happen if they should ever meet. The world might implode.  He would, that's for sure.

Between time spent styling his hair and trying on clothes, he spends nearly an hour getting ready.  First impressions are important after all, and Derek's already short on friends, he wants to make a good impression.  Besides, he likes Erica, even if she's a snarky shit.  Huh, maybe that's why he likes her.

He meets the group in the lobby.  Boyd's already there, arm around Erica's waist.  Derek shakes the bigger man's hand, and tries not to think of Erica's offered threesome.  Who's Derek kidding?  That's all he can think of when Boyd's muscles clench as he lets go of Derek's palm.  He looks like he could easily pick both Erica and him up at the same time and fuck them against the wall.  Derek's ears turn red when Erica sends him a knowing smirk.

Next to show up is a woman Derek undoubtedly recognizes, he watched her on television a year ago as she won gold for the U.S. at Sochi.  Allison Argent.  A thankfully distant relation to the ex-girlfriend who tried to set his family's home on fire.  Allison's a world ranking archer, and his little cousin, Malia's, hero. 

Derek's apparently living in a building full of famous people.

Except for Scott, who stumbles out of the elevator after Allison, with a dopey smile on his face.  But then again, Scott doesn't technically live in the building, even if, according to Erica, he spends most of his time here between Allison and Stiles.  Stiles, who apparently really isn't Scott's boyfriend, considering that Scott looks at Allison like she hung the moon, and the stars.

They're leaving the building when his curiosity gets the better of him. 

"Where's your friend, Stiles?"  Derek asks Scott who's holding Allison's pinky and _literally_ swinging their arms.  Allison rolls her eyes like she's humoring her boyfriend.  "He's your friend, isn't he?  Shouldn't he be here?"              

"Stiles doesn't go to bars."  Scott says, and in lieu of an explanation he changes the subject.  "Do you like darts?"

Derek drops the obviously unwelcome subject, and promptly forgets all about it when they take him to a hole in the wall pub selling gorgeous homebrewed Irish stout on tap.  He's in hops scented heaven.

Derek's having the time of his life, trying to beat Allison at darts, while half drunk on fucking amazing beer, all the while enjoying awesome company.  Unsurprisingly, Allison kicks his ass, nailing bullseye after bullseye.

Eventually the night tapers down, the buzz starts wearing off, and the couples start pairing off.  Derek's left sitting at the bar, the fifth wheel, while the couples canoodle in their booths.  Derek would call it rude, if he was sure they weren't doing it on purpose, they're just not used to an extra person intruding on their nights out.  It seems like Stiles never goes out with them, even though Scott calls him his best friend.

Derek calls it a night, paying off his tab, and waving goodbye to the two couples, half surprised when Erica tackles him in a hug, making him promise to go out with them again.

He's walking past central park when he hears a commotion coming from the trees opposite his building, hardly buzzed, Derek crosses the street to investigate.  He's hoping someone isn't getting mugged.  He shakes his head clearing it, and tighten his hands into fists, following the sounds of yelling, and what Derek thinks, with growing horror, is the sound of fists thumping into flesh.

Derek takes off like a dart, hoping he's not too late to save this person from getting hurt too badly.  He quickly hops the five foot barrier between the sidewalk and the park.

What he comes upon, when he parts the bushes and foliage, are two bodies strewn on the ground, and Stiles with his hand braced on his knees, looking like he's trying to catch his breath, wearing damned plaid booty shorts.

"What the hell happened?"  Derek asks, his mouth gaping.

"Fucks, thought I'd be an easy target."  Stiles explains pulling out a cell phone from god knows where, dialing 9-1-1.  "Hello, I'd like to report a mugging in Central Park on 5th, between 73rd and 74th.  No, I'm the victim, but I have formal training in Aikido, and incapacitated two of the attackers, but one ran away.  No, they're just unconscious, but send an ambulance, in case."  He looks up at Derek before turning away.  Facing away from him, Derek can't hear Stiles give the emergency operator his personal details.  "Thanks."  Stiles says, hanging up.

"Are you okay."  Derek asks, just noticing Stiles has some blood on his face.  He rummages around in his jeans, pulling out a wet wipe singlet he pocketed from the bar.

"Yeah, one got a swing in, lucky prick."  Stiles wipes away the blood oozing from his split lip.  "Don't worry about me."  He pushes away Derek's hand after taking the offered wet wipe, hissing when the lemon scented paper touches the wound.  "I'm the son of a Sheriff who happens to be a former marine, if you think I can't look after myself, you're wrong."

"I don't doubt it.  Aikido, that's impressive."  Derek remarks, trying to start up a conversation.

Stiles studies his face for a moment in the soft glowing light of the cast iron lamps, before looking away.  "You might want to go before the cops show up if you don't want to wait to give a statement."

Derek waves away his concern.  "It's fine, it's not like I have anything better to do."

With that Stiles' mouth quirks.  "Yeah, there's nothing like talking to the police on a Friday night."

"Right?"  Derek laughs, before trailing off when he sees Stiles' lip is still bleeding.  "I should probably look at that."  Derek comes closer, and when Stiles doesn't step back, he takes it as permission.  His fingers lightly touch Stiles' chin, making the boy tip his face up into the light.  From close up, the split lip looks even worse with a jagged tear.  "It's going to need stitches."  He concludes.

"Fuck."  Stiles frowns, tearing his chin out of Derek's grasp.  "Dammit."

"It's okay."  Derek soothes.  "It'll heal up in no time."

Stiles just looks at him, before turning away, and kneeling beside the forms of one of the two muggers, checking his breathing and pulse with a clinical air, before moving to the other one, whom he treats somewhat more roughly than the first.  Derek's guessing he's the one who threw the punch.

By the time the police show up, it feels like they've regressed.  Stiles won't even look at him, he keeps pulling his phone out, studying his lip in the front view camera, swearing when it starts bleeding sluggishly every time he removes the wet wipe.  Stiles' actions fuel Derek's suspicions that he really is a model.  Only someone who makes a living off of his appearance would care about a minor facial injury more than the fact that he was just attacked by three people.

Derek gives his statement to a serious looking cop, and tells it like it is.  No, he didn't see Stiles incapacitate the men.  Yes, he heard a commotion from the street.  No, he didn't help Stiles knock the men out.  Yes, he knows the victim.  Yes, they are neighbors.  After a thanks for your help, the police send him on his way, and he watches as Stiles gets into a squad car to be taken to the hospital to get his lip stitched.

By the time he gets home, he doesn't even bother with the short trip to the bedroom, and just collapses on the couch.  Derek wonders if he should set up his bed in the living room, since he's yet to sleep on anything but his couch since moving here.  On that thought Derek drifts off into a deep slumber, images of booty shorts haunting his dreams.

He wakes to Laura poking him in the kidney.

"Whaaat."  Derek blinks blearily.  "How'd you even..." 

"Get in here?"  Laura completes his thought and he nods.  "I know your real estate agent."

"I can't even begin to tell you just how illegal that is."  Derek sits up rubbing his eyes.  "Did you at least bring breakfast?"

Laura holds up a bag of bagels.  "Goodie."  Derek yawns.   "The toaster oven is beside the microwave.  Extra crispy please."  Derek walks off to the bathroom, takes a piss, and pops some ibuprofen to stave off a looming hangover headache.

Laura sniffs at him when he gets back to the kitchen.  "You reek.  Go take a shower."  He rolls his eyes but fulfils her request.  By the time he emerges, Laura has eggs fried up beside some nice and crispy bagels. 

"Thanks, sis."  He says, digging in.

When they finish Derek dumps their plates in the sink, quickly washing while Laura dries.

"You never told me, why you're here so early."  Derek asks, handing a pan to Laura.

She wipes down the teflon, before placing the dry pan to the side.  "Mark broke up with me."

"What?"  Derek exclaims, shocked.  "But you guys seemed so happy."

"It was the children thing."  Laura says, pointedly not looking at him.

"Oh."

"Yeah."  Laura grabs the dried plates, and stores them in the cupboard Derek pointed out earlier.

"Well, if you don't want the same things..."

"I told him though."  Laura frustrates, interrupting Derek.  "I fucking told him when we first started dating.  _I don't want children_.  You know what he told me last night?  He was hoping I'd changed my mind after five long years together.  Like he thinks I didn't actually know what I wanted, and that suddenly I'd start wanting to raise children."  She snorts, tears leaking from her eyes.  "And you know what's the worst thing?  His best friend said he was going to propose if I said yes to tots."

"He's an fucking asshole and he doesn't deserve you."  Derek wraps his arm around his sister, and presses a kiss to her temple.  "Now, c'mon I know what will make you feel better."  Derek walks to the freezer, and pulls out a tub of Häagen-Dazs, tossing it to Laura with a spoon.  "I've also got some new episodes of your favourite foul mouthed uncensored chef lined up on my DVR."  Derek offers.

Laura wipes away her tears.  "See, this is why you're my favourite brother."

He smirks at her.  "I'm your only brother."

"And you're the best."

They crash on the couch and binge watch Hell's Kitchen for most of the day.  It's entertaining to see Laura really get into it.  As a restaurant critic she claims an intimate connection to Gordon Ramsay and their mutual hate of pathetic sous-chefs.

"I'm going to marry him, Derek."  She points her spoon at the flat screen.

He nods.  "I'd ship it."

"Is polyamorous marriage even legal in England?  I don't want him to have to divorce his wife."

Derek shrugs, watching avidly as some poor sod boils his scallops, and then gets his ass reamed when Ramsay notices.  "Don't move to England, make him come here."

"Good idea."  Laura brightens.  "Why should I uproot my career for him?"

"Exactly, sis."  He raises his fist, and Laura bops it with hers.

"When did you get so smart, little bro?"  She chucks him on the shoulder.

"Around the same time Cora started getting stupid."

"Oh?  So when she was first elected?"  Laura grins.

"Yeah, pretty much."  Derek nods.

Laura leaves just as the sun starts to set.  Derek's in the corridor, tossing his garbage down the chute, when Stiles' door clicks open.  Derek nods at the boy when Stiles notices him.  Stiles pulls his earphones out.  "Hey, did the police call you back?"

"Nah, not yet."

"Okay, cool.  One of the guys confessed, and gave the name of the dude that ran, so they shouldn't have to call you in to court."

"That's great."  Derek smiles, and Stiles returns it.  "Going for a jog?"  He asks, raising his brow.

"Yeah, well, muggers don't scare me."  Stiles shrugs, and Derek notices the stitches along his lip, but doesn't ask about it, Stiles is seemingly very touchy about his appearance.

He doesn't know what makes him ask.  When he jogs, it's usually on the treadmill by his balcony, far away from all the wolf whistles he'd get if he worked out in public.  "Do you want a jogging partner?"

Stiles just looks at him, before his lip quirks.  "Think you can keep up?"

Half an hour later and Derek regrets so much.

Stiles runs _fucking fast_.  And he doesn't bother to alternate between walking, and spurts of speed, he just keeps running like he's in a fucking marathon, and Derek's struggling to keep up.  Stiles is hardly even sweating, and Derek's starting to wonder if the boy's got roadrunner blood running through his veins. 

He finally has enough, and collapses on the grass beside the trail.  A few middle aged woman in aerobic costumes holding dumbbells pass by and stare at him in pity.  It seems everyone in this park knows just how fast Stiles runs. 

Eventually Stiles notices Derek isn't behind him anymore, and backtracks to where Derek's still lying out, spread eagle, panting into the grass.  Stiles doesn't even stop moving, he keeps running on the spot, looking over Derek, probably checking to see if he's still alive.

He's really not.

"Want some water?"  Derek nods yes, and Stiles runs away from him to a snack shop nearby, the worker, in the process of pulling down the iconic green umbrellas.  Stiles purchases two bottles, and hands one to Derek.  "Drink slowly."  He instructs.

Derek obediently takes a few sips.  "Why do you run so fast?"

Stiles shrugs, sipping his cold water, as he sits down on the cooling grass beside Derek.  "I like the burn, it helps clear my head."

They sit, and watch the sun set, before taking off again.  This time, Stiles backtracks and they run towards their building. 

"Sorry I ruined your run."  Derek apologizes in the elevator ride up.

"Nah, dude, it's nice to have company every once in a while."  Stiles hands twitch nervously as they grip his half empty bottle of water.  "Do you want to go runninh with me in the morning?"  Stiles asks turning to him, as the elevator reaches their floor.  "I'd understand if you say no, I know I'm a bit intense when I'm on the path."  Stiles walks out of the elevator, and head to his door, Derek grabs his elbow before he escapes.

"I'd love to."  Derek grins.  "I could use some more fresh air."

Stiles smiles, and Derek lets go of his arm.  "Cool, see you at seven."

Derek's safely locked away in his apartment when he realizes just what he agreed to, and his aching legs beg for mercy, but he perseveres.  Derek likes Stiles.  He finally feels like the boy's opening up to him, and Derek has a feeling that once they become good friends, Stiles won't be as monosyllabic as before.  He's already speaking more and more now.

Derek strips off his sweat soaked wife beater, tossing it in the laundry basket on his way to the bathroom.  He's running a bubble bath, grabbing a dark blue towel from the linen closet, when he notices some light beige stains rub from his hand onto the terry cloth.  It kind of looks like the stains Jennifer would get on her clothes when she pulled off her shirt before taking off her makeup.  Derek stares puzzled at his hand for a long second, before shrugging it off and slipping into the mint scented bubbles for a nice long soak.

Derek wakes in his bed instead of his couch to loud, violent knocking on his door.

He nearly falls off his mattress in his hurry to answer so he can murder whoever thought it was a good idea to wake him up so early in the morning.  He quickly pulls open the door, wearing his best murder face.  "What!?"

He glares at Stiles, who has his brows raised.

"Aww, it seems like someone forgot."  Stiles quirks an eyebrow.  "You agreed to seven, you know, you shouldn't make promises you don't intend to keep."

Derek blinks, suddenly remembering the night before.  "Gimme a sec."  He shuts the door in Stiles' face, belatedly realizing the polite thing to do would be to invite him in.  Oh well, too late now.

Derek stumbles back to his bedroom and pulls on a clean wife beater, and a pair of basketball shorts over his  dark briefs, and shit, he answered the door in those.  He's almost insulted Stiles had absolutely no reaction to his body.  He's seen the straightest of straight men double take at his chest in appreciation and envy.

He's frowning when he exits his condo to Stiles leaning against the corridor wall, his long fingers thumbing through his cell phone, brow furrowed in concentration.  Stiles looks up when he hears Derek shut his door, and tucks his cell away into a hidden pocket at the front of his garishly orange booty shorts.  So that's where Stiles keeps his phone.  "Ready?"  Stiles asks.

They make their way down to the park, but Derek insists on buying a coffee before stretching.

"You shouldn't drink coffee before running, it'll dehydrate you."  Stiles points out while Derek's standing in line at a coffee cart.

Derek rolls his eyes.  "They'll be no running if I can't function enough to think."

"Whatever, it's your funeral, just don't expect me to carry you home when you collapse from dehydration."  Stiles pouts.

"I'll be fine."  

"Like I said, whatever."  Stiles wanders away, and Derek smiles, almost snorting, because Stiles cares.  It's almost like they're real friends.

"C'mon." Stiles urges after Derek downs his black coffee, and throws the cup in the recycling.  "Let's go."

Derek goes running with Stiles every morning and evening, and after two weeks, he manages to keep up enough with Stiles, and the boy falls back into his usual runs, the long ones he used to go on before Derek started crashing the party. 

Suddenly Derek understands what Stiles was talking about when he said running helps him concentrate better.  He's writing more, and Lydia so ecstatic about it, she never brings up Gale's relationship status every again.  Derek returns to writing about epic knife fights, and mysteries, without being bogged down with romance. 

When he kills off Melanie in a touching cliffhanger, forcing Gale to swear bloody revenge on Cobb, he can finally relax.  Sending off the manuscript with a long sigh, he leaves all the editing to Lydia. 

Now, Derek has two months off before he has to start planning and writing the sixth and final installment in the series and he has no idea what to do with himself.

His social life consists of random visits from Laura, a weekly fifth wheel barhop experience, and his twice daily runs with Stiles. 

Boy, does he ever cherish those runs.  Stiles is starting to really open up to him, talking about playing video games with Scott, the bad guys his dad catches in his home town in California, and the books and journals he reads.  One day, he mentions Derek's books, and he feels himself turn an awful shade of red.  Stiles laughs, holding his sides in stitches, and claims Derek looks like a ripe tomato.  He then proceeds to tell him he loves his books, and his decision to write Gale as perpetually single.  See, Stiles understands.

One day, they're running on Bow Bridge when someone calls out.  "Przemysław? Przemysław Stilinski?"  Derek raises his brow.  What is that word vomit, a name?  He turns to Stiles a laugh on his lips, when he freezes.

Stiles is pale, horribly pale, and Derek's just about to open his mouth and ask him what's wrong, when the boy takes off like a shot, running like hell hounds are biting at his heels.  Derek's so surprised he stops right in the middle of the bridge, shocked.  He can't even see Stiles anymore, he ran off so fast disappearing into the trees.

He feels someone come up behind him, and Derek whips around, turning to see a curly haired man with the face of an angel, panting heavily like he just ran a marathon.  "Where'd he go?  Did you see?"  He asks Derek, taking in deep gulps of air.

"What?  Who?"  He asks puzzled.  Stiles?

"Przemysław!  You know him, right?"

"Umm, I think you have the wrong person."

"I know what my friend looks like, okay?"  The man snaps angrily.

Derek raises his palms in surrender.  "Well, I hope you find him, then."  He takes off before the man can say another word.  The city really is full of crazy. 

He heads back to his building, he'll never find Stiles is the vast park if he tries to look for him.  Derek going to knock on Stiles' door later in the afternoon, check up on him, and hopefully get his cell number.  It's ridiculous he hasn't thought to ask for it before, but if they ever did really need to talk to each other they could always knock on each other's doors.  He's never needed it before today.

In the afternoon Stiles gives him his number, after apologizing for taking off without explanation, claiming he suddenly had to go to the bathroom.  Derek raises his eyebrow at the excuse, thinking back to the curly haired cherubic blonde on the Bow Bridge.  When he goes running with Stiles in the evening, he doesn't even protest when he suggests running along a different path altogether, he notices the path veers as far away from Bow Bridge as possible. 

Derek says nothing, if Stiles wants to tell him, he will.  Derek tries to stuff down his inherent curiosity, shoving it under his bed, so to speak.

A week later and Erica and Boyd invite him to a small get together with their friend group in their penthouse.  He knocks on the door, bringing a case of wine.

"It's open!"  Erica calls out, and Derek turns the knob, walking in. 

The floor plan's slightly different from Derek's.  Their suite is basically a bigger, more luxurious version of his, so he manages to find the kitchen easily, waving a hello at Stiles when he passes him lying spread out on the couch.

Dropping off the case in the kitchen, he realizes he forgot to bring up the platter of cheese, Derek rushes down to his suite, and pulls it out of his fridge.

He's busy finding room in Erica's fridge in between all the heads of lettuce and Gatorade populating the shelves, when Scott walks into the kitchen with a smile that suddenly freezes when he spots the case of wine on the countertop.

Scott's eyes widen and he freaks out, picking up the case, and shoving it in Derek's hands, whispering in a panicked tone.  "Get this out of here!"  Derek does, rushing out with the case to drop back in his suite.  When he comes back, Scott meets his eyes, smiling, and asks how he's been, like the past five minutes never even happened. 

Stiles must be a preaching teetotaler if Scott is afraid to even drink around him.

Erica pulls out the first four Die Hard films, and doesn't even mention the existence of the fifth, something nobody complains about.  Derek settles in beside Stiles to watch.

Eventually everyone ends up on the floor, curled up in each other's spaces.  Stiles has an arm wrapped around Derek's waist.  Boyd, a foot curled around his calf as Erica, runs her fingers distractedly through his hair.  Scott's curled up, fast asleep on Allison's chest, his fist grabbing at Stiles shirt, lifting it up so his dark happy trail is revealed.  Derek tries his damndest not to look.  Even though Derek puzzles over a boy who shaves his legs, but not his stomach.

Derek wakes at ten in the morning surrounded by hot bodies, most of them thrown all over him.  He wiggles out from underneath Stiles' splayed out limbs, steadfastly ignoring the boy's obvious morning wood when it pokes Derek in the thigh.  He tries to not think about how hung Stiles feels, just from a small poke.  Derek has to wait for his subsequent erection to go down before he can piss.  He's not jacking off in his friends' home, no matter what.

He makes everyone a large breakfast and by the time he gets home, he's itching to go for a run with Stiles.  He spots the case of wine by his door, picks it up and takes it to the kitchen.  It seems like he'll be enjoying a glass every night with dinner now.  Opening the four pack case, he grins at a missing bottle, it seems like Stiles' alcohol ban frustrates someone.  He pops one bottle in the fridge to cool, before storing the other two in the pantry.

Whoever took the wine, took Derek's favourite Bourgogne red.  At least they have nice taste, he thinks, before shutting the cupboard, and wandering off to his bathroom to take a shower.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm spending all my days painting and writing fanfiction, and my exams are in a two days, omg, I'm gonna fail.... but the Sterek plot bunnies refuse to leave me alone even though I have two WIPs I gotta write, urggggg.
> 
> Unbeta'd, so mistakes are mine.
> 
> Warnings in end notes, I didn't want to tag them because they give away the plot, but if you have any triggers whatsoever, check the end.

Derek wakes to muted yelling.  He's always been a light sleeper, but a person in a coma would wake because of the fucking loud noises coming from the corridor.

Derek grabs the huge encyclopedia on guns lying on his bedside table.  Usually he uses it for research on the gun aficionado, Gale.  But now his sleep drunk brain figures it would be good for self defense, just in case he has to break up a fight or stop yet another mugging, even if he had to do nothing the first time he came someone being mugged.

Derek cracks open his front door, and surveys the damage.

"Fuck off Danny!"  Derek hears Stiles shout.  The boy's standing just outside his door, screaming bloody murder at a well dressed man standing only a few feet away.

"Stiles."  The man, Danny, says calmly.  "You have to stop this." 

"You're not my father, you can't tell me what to do."  A bottle of wine swings precariously in Stiles' obviously drunk grasp.

Danny's posture stiffens, and he suddenly appears so severe in an expensive, tailored suit.  "No, but I pay for your upkeep, so unless you want to be on the streets, you'd better listen to me."

Stiles' eyes narrow.  "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"Who'd suck your cock?"  Stiles asks, blinking blearily.

"I'm sure I could find someone else to do it for _half_ of what I give you monthly."

Stiles studies Danny's face, before taking another swig of wine, but coming up empty.  Pointing his finger accusingly at Danny, he says.  "I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want."  Danny looks away from Stiles face, and his eyes meet Derek's shocked ones.  "I'm leaving and calling Scott, he'll _deal_ with you."  Danny glares at Derek, daring him to say anything.  Derek just looks away, breaking the eye contact.

"Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!"  Stiles screeches.  "I'm not something to be dealt with!"

"Right now, you are.  You're acting like a pathetic child."  Danny strides right past Derek on his way to the elevator.

"You come back here right now, Danny."  Stiles warns after Danny's retreating back.  "Don't you fucking walk away from me, asshole!"  Stiles throws the empty bottle of wine, and it lands right in front of Derek.  "Fine!"  Stiles shouts, slamming his door shut behind him.

Derek bends down, picking up the empty bottle, recognizing the missing bottle of Bourgogne.  And suddenly it hits Derek.  Stiles isn't a teetotaler, he's a fucking alcoholic.  Now, everything makes so much fucking sense.  Why Scott doesn't invite Stiles out on bar nights.  Why he refuses to smell like beer around his best friend, and why he nearly went into a state of panic when Derek brought the case of wine.

And all Scott's carefulness went to shit because of Derek.  Stiles got his hands on a bottle of wine because Derek is a fucking idiot and couldn't even figure it out.

And what is the deal with this _Danny_?  He pays Stiles to have sex with him?  Stiles is a fucking rent boy? 

Now that Derek thinks about it, he's never seen Stiles leave for a regular job, the only time he goes out is if he's running, or he's wearing a clubbing outfit, which, _holy shit_.  How can Stiles go out clubbing if he's an alcoholic?  There's bound to be booze in any club he visits.  Unless, of course they're not clubbing clothes but tricking clothes.

Derek collapses down on his couch, tossing the encyclopedia and wine bottle on his center table.  Just when he thinks he knows someone, it all blows up in his face.  What the fuck does he even say to Stiles now?  Better yet, how does he even look at him?  Over these few months he's come to think of Stiles as his best friend, but Derek must be such a shitty friend if he didn't even know this.  Everyone knows, fucking Erica knows.

Fuck, Erica.  Derek remembers when he'd just met Erica and she called Scott when Derek mentioned Stiles' uncharacteristic behavior.  Now, he needs to call Scott and tell him it's his fault Stiles got his paws on alcohol.  He doesn't trust this _Danny_ to do that.

He picks up his phone, and scrolls through until he finds Scott's number.  The phone rings for a minute before disconnecting.  Derek stares at the phone in accusation.  Perfect.  Fucking perfect.  A second later it beeps with a text from Scott.  It's an automatic message saying Scott's on shift at the hospital at the moment, and can't come to the phone.

Derek throws his phone away in frustration, and it bounces on the couch.  He gets up, and starts pacing around the living room before finally coming to a decision.  He's going to go over to Stiles' flat, check up on him, and make sure he doesn't drown in his own vomit.  Good plan.

When Derek tries Stiles' door he finds it unlocked.  Derek locks it behind him before wandering through Stiles' dark apartment, a place he's never been invited before, but vaguely recognizes, because the layout echoes his own.  Derek stops and stares as he passes through the kitchen.  The walls beside the sliding balcony doors are decorated with cutouts from fashion magazines and catalogues.  Derek steps closer, seeing a pair of shoes Stiles was wearing a few days ago immortalized on paper.  Derek studies pictures of runway models with various poses, their bodies circled in red marker, red strings tied around tacks stuck between catalogues and runway shots.

Derek spins around when he hears the click of metal on porcelain, he leaves Stiles' wall of memories behind.  Turning around the corner, he sees a strip of light coming from under a door he assumes is the bathroom.  Cracking the door open, he's assaulted with bright florescent lighting.  As Derek blinks away the spots of light in his eyes, he sees the boy he's searching for.  

Stiles is sitting naked on the ledge of the tub, straddling it, one foot in the tub, the other on the cold ceramic floor, fucking shaving himself. 

It looks like he just finished his legs, and they still have some spots of shaving foam left, but no hair.  Currently, the boy is shaving his groin, his happy trail gone, along with a large majority of hair south of the border. 

Derek knows he's invading Stiles’ privacy.  Yet, he can't help his gaze flickering down, attracted by Stiles' motions, and the schicking sounds of the razor as it cuts through pubic hair.  Derek can make out the short tuft of rapidly disappearing hair, Stiles’ soft penis nestled in it; as long as Derek thought it would be.

"Are you sure you should be doing this _now_?"  Derek asks, puzzled, wondering just how Stiles' drunk brain works if he thinks it's a good idea to shave after drinking a whole bottle of wine.

"Danny likes me shaved."  He says, looking up and catching Derek's eye.  "It's probably why he won't fuck me anymore."  Derek gapes at his words.

"But, you're kind of..."  Derek trails off, he doesn't know how to say what he means without sounding like an asshole.

"Piss poor drunk?"

"Well, yeah."  Derek makes a grab for the razor, trying to get it away from Stiles' junk after the inebriated boy takes another swipe, precariously close to important bits.  Derek doesn't want to have to call an ambulance if Stiles cuts open an artery.  That would be a fun injury to explain to an operator.

Derek's hands wrap around Stiles wrist, pulling the razor away from his half shaved groin.  He turns Stiles' arm facing up, trying to pry open his fingers and make him to let go of the razor, but he freezes.  What he sees makes him drop Stiles' hand in shock.

Stiles' forearm.  Derek stares, at the startling long, blue marks standing out against pale skin.  Track marks.  And a fuck ton of them.  Stiles clasps his hand against the scar tissue, effectively cutting off Derek's view.  He wonders how he never saw the marks before, but then Derek figures makeup can hide anything.  Stiles regularly wears it on his mouth, why not his forearms?  Derek thinks back to his blue towel with beige stains on it.  Stains that happened after he grabbed Stiles' elbow and then wiped his hand on the terry cloth.

Stiles calmly picks up a short silk yukata, from where it lays crumpled on the floor, and pulls it on, covering his arms, but not his modesty.  He doesn't belt it up, and his flaccid dick still hangs out.  He avoids looking at Derek.

"I'm sorry."  Derek says.  For what, he doesn't know.  He's sorry he invaded Stiles' privacy.  He's sorry the boy is a former drug user, and now alcoholic.  He's sorry Stiles' sells his body.  He's sorry about all of the above and more.

Stiles snorts wetly, and tosses the razor into the trash bin by the toilet.  "Whatever."  Stiles tries to get up, shaking, falling and almost hitting his head against the tub, but Derek snatches his arm at the last second, saving him from a bashed in skull.  Stiles pushes Derek away and gets up again, this time more steadily.

"You're a mess."  Derek states.

"No shit, Sherlock."  Stiles rolls his eyes.  "Got anything else to tell me?"

Derek really doesn't know how to bring it up, but he takes a plunge and goes for it.  "This Danny..."

Stiles fixes him with a cold stare, but Derek's already rolling, it's too late to stop now.

"Does he treat you right?"  Derek asks weakly.

"Don't even try, Derek."  Stiles seethes, warning him.  "You don't need to be my knight in shining armor, you don't need to fix me.  I'm not being forced, it's my goddamn choice."

"I'm not-"

"I know what you're thinking, I'm not a night walker, okay?"  Stiles interrupts.  "I'm Danny's mistress, mister, or whatever the fuck the male term is."

"Kept boy."  Derek helpfully supplies.

"Whatever."  Stiles rolls his eyes.  "My life wasn't always like this.  Danny was an admirer, and when the shit fell off the ceiling after it hit the fan, he offered me this apartment and an allowance."    

An admirer of what?  Derek thinks back to when he Googled 'Stiles', and nothing came up.  He remembers the man in the park that recognized Stiles, calling him an Eastern European sounding name.  Maybe that's why searches for 'Stiles' come up with nothing, because it's a pseudonym.

What did that man say?  Schem-mey-swaf Stilinski, or something?

Derek tugs on Stiles' arm, while his mind runs a mile a minute.  "You need to sleep this off, c'mon."  He drags Stiles to his bedroom, making sure to tie up the boy's gaping robe, all the while trying to avoid looking at Stiles' groin.

Stiles snorts quietly but fondly, "Weirdo."

Derek tucks Stiles on his side into the bed, pulling silk sheets over him.  "At least some of us have some modesty left."  He leaves him, and goes to the kitchen, rummaging around in the cupboards, finding a glass.  Filling it up with water, he pads back to Stiles' room, only to find him asleep, he places the glass by the bed for when Stiles wakes up.  Derek settles into a comfy armchair, falling asleep.

When he wakes in the morning, Stiles is still asleep in the bed, the glass of water half empty.  Derek blinks blearily at the clock, reading 8 am.  He gets up, and heads over to his apartment, Digging around for his phone, Derek calls his uncle Peter, a linguistics professor, and pronounces Stiles' name for him.

Peter pauses, and says nothing for some time.  "Why do you want to know about a former model?"

"Model."  Derek states dumbly.

"Yes, model."  Peter says sardonically.  "Przemysław Stilinski used to model before he disappeared off the runway a few years ago.  Jesus, Derek, don't you watch the news?  Everyone thought his junkie girlfriend murdered him before offing herself.  It was the biggest thing for like a week in 2010."

Derek sighs, frustrated.  "I don't watch the shit you do, Peter."

"Hey, The Insider is not shit, you heathen, I need to keep up with Brangelina somehow.

"Oh my god, Peter."

"Don't diss my celebrities, nephew, I'll have your head."

Derek hangs up.

Stiles avoids Derek, and stops running with him.  Whenever Derek goes over to knock on his door, Stiles pretends he's not home, even though, when Derek presses his ear to the wood, he can hear scuffling sounds coming from inside. 

It's frustrating, and awful, because Stiles is his best friend, and Derek fucking misses him.  Even if the cheerful personality of the boy he used to run with could have been all an act, he could see some aspects of that boy peek through when Stiles was depressed, drunk, and at his most brutally honest.

Derek starts making trips down to Bow Bridge, spending an hour or two a day sitting nearby, waiting, and hoping to catch a glimpse of the curly haired man.

One day he spots him feeding ducks, and Derek goes up to him.

"You know, you're not supposed to do that."  Derek points to the paper bag the curly haired man's holding."

The man rolls his eyes, not even looking at Derek standing beside him.  "It's not white bread, okay?  It's barley, it's good for them, and unless you're a fucking ranger, you can go sod the hell off."  The man turns to Derek, and freezes.

"I'm guessing you remember me."  Derek says.

"You're the man who was running with Przemysław."  Isaac states, and turns the bag of barley upside down over the water, before crumpling it up and shoving it in a courier bag. 

"Yeah, I'm Derek."  He holds out a hand.

"Isaac."  The man shakes.  "Why are you talking to me now?  You seemed pretty adamant that you didn't know what I was talking about before.  Made me act like a fucking fool."  Isaac crosses his arms, frowning.

"I didn't know his name was Przemysław at the time, he's Stiles to me."

"Stiles is his childhood nickname.  Przemysław is his business name."

"Model name?"  Derek asks.

"Yeah."

Derek gestures to the park bench.  "Join me?"

Derek finds out more about Stiles in the next thirty minutes, than Stiles ever told him in the last few months he's known the boy.                                                                                                          

"He used to be a model."  Isaac says.  "His girlfriend, Heather was the Nancy to his Sid.  They lived together, they partied together, they drank together, and they did heroin together."  Derek remembers those heavy blue marks on Stiles' skin.  He shudders.  "What people don't understand about heroin, one shot doesn't make an addict, it takes months of constant abuse to get someone to the point that if they miss a shot, they go into violent withdrawals."  Isaac explains looking at Derek. 

"His popularity exploded a year before he met Heather.  He traveled all around the world, walked on international runways, but eventually the stress started to get to him.  When Stiles met Heather she was well past doing heroin to escape, she was a fucking addict.  As a trust fund baby, she was never short on cash, and she funded Stiles' new _hobby_.   Heather convinced him to take a shot, and let the heroin take him away.  And boy, did it ever do its job, weeks later and he was dumping jobs to go to parties and shoot it up with Heather.

"Eventually Heather's dealer got busted, but she found another one who guaranteed a purer product than what she usually used.  She shot up her regular amount, not taking into account the purity of the heroin she used.  She overdosed and Stiles was the one to find her a few days later.  He never told me what it was like, finding her days old dead body, and I was his best friend.  He checked himself into rehab right after the police finished questioning him. 

"One day I visited him, but they said he checked himself out, but he didn't answer my calls, and I never saw him again until that day.

Derek is speechless.  He fists his hands in his lap, not knowing what to do or say.  Stiles has had a shit life, and now it's still fucking shitty.  He's still an addict, now paying rent with his body, and yet he still loves the fashion world.  Derek remembers the photos pinned up on Stiles' wall.  The stress of modeling must have eaten him away, and yet he still loves it enough to follow all the trends.

Derek turns to Isaac.  "We need to help him."

That night Isaac and Derek camp out in his living room, keeping an ear on the door, listening to see when and if Stiles goes out.  Isaac had explained to him what he thought Stiles was doing.

 "He's not tricking, Derek, he would never sell his body to someone he doesn't trust.  I know Danny, he was one of Przemysław's fans, someone who eventually became his friend,  he trusts Danny."  Isaac taps his finger in thought.  "I think he's going to an old dance studio, one he used to rent, it has mirrors all over where he used to practice posing and walking.  It was his safe space."

They figure Stiles would feel most comfortable seeing Isaac again if he's in a space reminding him of his old life.

When they hear Stiles' door open, Derek rushes to the peephole, and catches of glimpse of Stiles in his heels.  Quickly they toss on dark jackets, and follow him, catching the next elevator.  They arrive outside the building just in time to see Stiles' jeep exit the underground parking.  They decided taking Derek's Camaro would be too obvious so they hop into a cab. 

Isaac quickly tells the driver.  "Follow that jeep!"  He points to Stiles' baby blue CJ-5.

"Oh hell yeah!"  The cab driver cheers, obviously happy to reenact a stereotype.  "I've always wanted to do this.  I feel like Gale Sanders, you know from those brilliant books by Derek Hale?  This is like a dream come true."

Isaac laughs, turning to Derek who knows he has a goofy grin plastered on his face.  He loves meeting people who read his books.  He is fucking tipping this driver.

Stiles drives out, taking the 495 out of Manhattan and into Brooklyn, stopping in a rundown neighborhood in Queens.  Isaac nods, this is the place.  

The Jeep is parked in front of the dance studio, Stiles beat the traffic, getting there a few minutes before them.  The cab sneakily drops them off a block away.  Derek hands the man a 50 dollar note, on top of the fare.  Telling him to keep the change, Derek winks.  The kind driver blushes, even though he's middle aged and most probably straight as an arrow, with a photo of his wife and five kids on his dash.  Derek is one charming mother, if he does say so himself.

Derek tries the door, finding it locked before Isaac pushes him away, rummaging around in the courier bag he carries with himself everywhere, it probably has to do with his career as a makeup artist.  When Isaac pulls out a lockpicking set from his bag, Derek raises a brow.

"Jesus."  Derek whispers.  "Now I feel like Gale Sanders."

Isaac winks, and the tumbler clicks.  Isaac walks through the darkened building like he knows the layout, and has been there many times.  He pulls Derek over to a set of stairs, leading down to the basement.  At the bottom of the dark concrete steps lays at industrial door, Isaac pushes it open to reveal a light flooded dance studio, mirrors surrounding the huge area.

Stiles is in the center of the room, looking himself over, before taking a huge breath and just walking.  He hasn't noticed them yet, so focused on studying his posture, and careful steps in his reflection.  He's wearing heels Laura would drool to get her paws on, and tight dark wash jeans Derek would love to get his hands in.  Whoa, where did that thought come from? 

Derek's so busy staring at Stiles ass, he doesn't even noticed Isaac walking closer until Stiles hears him, spinning around to face them, a look of shock and fear on his face.  He sees Derek, and the fear changes to something that tugs at Derek's heart strings:  shame.   Derek's best friend's been avoiding him because he's ashamed on himself.  It hurts to think Stiles believes Derek would only look at the surface, and see the situations plaguing Stiles instead of the person he is.  A kind, beautiful boy, with just the perfect dose of snark and intelligence to challenge Derek. 

Derek returns Stiles' gaze, smiling fondly, and Stiles' face is overcome with a look of pure hope.

 "Przemysław."  Isaac smiles.  "Hi."

Stiles drags his eyes away from Derek, looking at Isaac with an unreadable expression, his hands stiff at his sides.  "Hi, Isaac."

"You've got yourself a nice setup here."  Isaac walks around looking at the lightboxes, pointing to a few long strips of tape stuck to the floor, along which Stiles walks.

"Yeah."

"It's been a few years."  Isaac says gently, approaching Stiles like he might run off like a jackal at any moment.

"Three years."  Stiles seems calm, it seems Isaac was right, he is comfortable in this space.

"I love your hair, I always told you, you look way better with a buzz than that ridiculous pomp all those designers wanted you to wear, it really brings out your gorgeous cheekbones."

Stiles blushes.  "I know."  He smiles fondly.  "Your advice is why I did it."

"I miss seeing you in my high chair."

"I miss you spraying hairspray in my eyes."

Isaac gulps, before throwing his arms, tight, around Stiles' shoulders, tucking his face into his neck.  Isaac sniffs and his back shakes with emotion.  Derek knows he's crying.  Stiles is not much better, his hands are fisted in the light material of Isaac's jacket, his eyes closed tight, fighting off the tears Isaac allows to fall freely.

"You're a fucking idiot."  Isaac says pulling back.  "Why didn't you call me and tell me you were better?  I would have come get you."

Stiles expression speaks without words, he looks ashamed.  "I thought you wouldn't want to associate with me."

"Why would you think that?"  He asks shrill.  "Przemysław, you were and are one of my best friends, nothing short of you going on a damned killing spree will ever change that."

Stiles blinks, and a tear runs down his face.  "Isaac..."

Isaac wipes his face.  "Now, c'mon, you were doing something before we got here and so rudely interrupted you, you should continue."

Stiles visibly blanches.  "Whaa... No I couldn't.  I'm still terrible"

"Nonsense, you were born to walk the runway.  Remember those pictures your dad showed me, where you wore your mother's heels and-"  Isaac is cut off when Stiles covers his mouth with a large palm.

He look over worriedly at Derek.  "You did not hear that."

Derek raises his palms in surrender.  "Not a word."

Stiles eyes soften as he looks at Derek.  Isaac stares between them, his eyebrows raised to his hairline, before a mischievous look overcomes his face.  "C'mon Stiles, walk for Derek."  Stiles turns a brilliant shade of red at Isaac's words, and Derek himself can feel his face fill with blood.

Isaac pulls Derek by the elbow over to a couple of chairs leaning against some mirrors.  He whispers into Derek's ear.  "You're in for a treat."

Boy is he ever.  Derek can almost hear the cameras flash, the wisp of waving brochures, the beat of music, but nothing, absolutely nothing can distract Derek away from the sight of Stiles swinging his hips as his walks. 

No, not walks, strides right up to them, the swing of his hips, matching the placement of one heeled foot in front of the other.  He looks so light, but at the same time grounded, which is amazing considering that he's seen the boy trip on plain air before.  Now, he's so in the zone, Boyd could tackle him, and the bigger man would bounce right off.

[Stiles strides](https://youtu.be/lIDZR-fyrl0?t=5m55s%20) right up to them, his arms flailing charmingly, eyes meeting Derek's, before placing his hands right on his hips, and performing some sort of grind belonging on a nightclub floor.  Derek gulps when Stiles winks, placing his hands on his head, and pouting with his coral lipstick painted on.  He flicks around so fast, Derek feels a breeze hit him, and kicks up a leg with attitude, before striding back the way he came.  Derek's mouth falls open.  If all fashion shows were like that, he'd watch them more often.

Isaac grins at him, and Derek realizes he said that out loud.  "Stiles was putting on a show for us, he only gets to walk like that for some designers.  He used to love getting jobs from Marco Morante; he could swing his hips to his heart's desire."

Stiles laughs, walking over to them normally.  "Remember that one Armani show in Milan?"

Isaac grins.  "The one where you walked like you had a [stick up your ass](https://youtu.be/U-2oyXQwZJ4?t=3m51s)?  How could I forget."

"The agency called me up the next day, and said the orange man himself was raving over my magnificent abilities, but the only reason I walked like that was because of that horrible guy I picked up in a club the night before."

Derek laughs along with Isaac who chuckles, saying,  "Only you would make something good out of bad sex."

Stiles smiles like the sun, before pulling out a metal chair opposite them, straddling it backwards, and laying his arms on the back rest.  He looks at Derek, his ears slightly pink.  "So what did you think?"

Derek tells it like it is.  "Hot, like burning."

Stiles hides his face his arms, his ears gone completely red.  "Thanks."

Isaac winks at Derek, before reaching out an taking Stiles' hands gently in his.  "I came here for two reasons, Przemysław."  Stiles looks up, questioning.  "One; I wanted to see you again."  Stiles smiles fondly at Isaac.  "And two; my friend Kira works for Yohji Yamamoto, and she wanted to know if you were interested in doing a shoot in conjunction with Vogue."

Stiles gapes.  "What?"

"You don't have to say yes, I'm just letting you know the offer's on the table."

"What?"  Stiles repeats, in shock.

Isaac looks down, disheartened, before slipping his hand out of Stiles'.  "I understand, forget I said anything."

"No, no, no."  Stiles squeaks. " I'm just in shock.  Holy shit!  Isaac.  Are you for real!?"

Isaac grins.  "It's for the September Issue."

"Fucking get out!"  Stiles squeals, and Derek laughs happily at how doggone excited he looks, before the happiness fades away to be replaced with a look of doubt.  "I'm not sure I'm ready."

"Trust me, honey, you're ready."  Isaac says, but Stiles still looks doubtful.

"I'm going to have to get back to you on that.  What's my deadline?"

Isaac frowns, disappointed.  "You have till the end of the week."  Five days.

Stiles' brow furrows.  "That's cutting it pretty close, isn't it?"

Isaac shrugs, but Derek speaks up.  "Stiles, you can do it."  He takes Stiles' dropped hand.  "I believe in you."  Stiles squeezes his hand, before letting go, and taking a deep breath.

"Okay, give me your phone number, and I'll let you know."

Stiles drives Isaac back to his brownstone in Hoboken, and they spend a whole five minutes hugging it out, before Isaac's girlfriend appears frowning and eh-hemming.  Isaac lets go with a sheepish smile directed at Derek.  

When they get home, Stiles invites Derek in for drinks to his raised eyebrow.  Turns out drinks means gross chunky green smoothie served up in coffee mugs.  Stiles mumbles something about eating healthy to Derek's disgusted frown.

They settle down on Stiles' couch facing the wall of photos.

"I fucking miss it."  Stiles breaks the silence.

"Modeling?"  Derek puts his mug of untouched smoothie down.

"Yeah.  But every time I even think of calling Isaac about the job, I almost have a panic attack.  I'm so fucked up."

"There's nothing wrong with you, Stiles."  Derek says, gently.  "Absolutely nothing."

Stiles snorts wetly.  "A lot of people would agree to disagree with you."

"Alcoholism is a disease, and alcohol is a substance that causes an addiction.  It isn't your fault, just like the heroin was never your fault."

Stiles laughs sadly.  "On the contrary, the heroin was all on me, I wasn't on it long enough to get addicted, I was just a stupid, stupid twenty year old whose hot girlfriend convinced him that the stress of being a top model would vanish if I took opiates."

"Did it?"

"In the beginning, yes.  But you don't understand, Derek.  I love modeling, I love wearing art.  I love the rush, the busyness.  I loved it when the makeup artists would line my eyes with kohl, and paint my lipstick on.  The cloud of hairspray that never really goes away.  Some days I wonder why I thought I needed to escape from it, when I used to fucking adore it so much."  Stiles sighs.  "I guess the alcoholism spawns from missing it so much I had to drink to forget, and when I couldn't get my hands on booze I would run so I could stop thinking about how incomplete my life is."

"You need to call Isaac, you need to take that job."

Stiles sighs, taking a long gulp of the smoothie.  "I think you're right."

Stiles calls Isaac they next day, Derek holding his hand the whole time.  He sets up an appointment with Kira, and in the evening Stiles goes out, Derek wishing him luck.

Derek spends the evening watching reruns of Hell's Kitchen, but he can hardly concentrate, his mind full of thoughts, worrying about Stiles.  He falls asleep on the couch, and wakes up to frantic knocking on his door.  When he opens it, Stiles launches into his arms.  "She gave me the job, even without a portfolio, and said she followed my career when I was still in the business."

"Congratulations."  Derek breathes into Stiles temple.  "You deserve it."  Stiles' arms tighten.

A few days later Derek wakes to Danny knocking on his door.

"Stiles is out."  With the photographer from Vogue, modeling in Central Park.  

"Oh?  Is he running?  I thought you would be with him."

"No."  Derek can't help but be short with this man, even though he seems like a nice guy, he's still keeping Stiles locked up in a gilded cage.

Danny raises a brow, but says nothing about Derek's rudeness.  "He talks about you a lot, you know.  He says you're his best friend."

"I am."

Danny sighs, and smoothes down the front of his suit.  "You may think of me as a villain, but I'm not, I just want the best for him."

Derek snorts, disbelieving.  "I find that hard to believe."

Danny's eyes narrow.  "Our original arrangement did not include sex, okay?  It was just me, giving a man I admire, a place to stay out of the many properties I own.  The sex came later, out of mutual want."

Derek scoffs.  "It's like you don't even know him.  He feels like he owes you, and that's why he sleeps with you."

Danny frowns.  "He owes me nothing, and besides, he hasn't slept with me for months now."

"What?"

"I don't care for half hearted blow jobs, when it seems like he has someone else on his mind."

"What?"  Derek repeats, wide eyed.

"You don't even know, do you?"  Danny laughs.  "Talk to him, Derek, but understand, I'm not going to kick him out on the streets because he wants you more than me.  I have other, more important things to focus on than jealousy.  Things like mergers and goddamn programmers who think they know more than me."  Danny frowns.  "That reminds me."  He pulls out his phone, before shooting him a curt goodbye.  Derek stares after the man as he walks away, taking rapidly and angrily in Japanese.

That evening Stiles comes back with a huge grin, he curls up on the couch with Derek and tells him all about how well the shoot went, laughing as he explains that, at lunch, Isaac was chased by a swan and had to be rescued by a Ranger.

Stiles remains busy all through August, between shooting his portfolio, and going to the dance studio, Derek hardly sees him, let alone run with him.  But he's busy too, his holiday is up and he begins writing the new installment in Gale Sanders' series.  It's consuming and eating his creativity because he wants to introduce a new romantic prospect for his protagonist: a beautiful artist who is unsubtly based on Stiles. 

Derek hasn't been in a relationship in years, so he sometimes finds himself stuck, at the moment, the two characters are consumed with a thick amount of unresolved sexual tension, Derek hopes to quickly resolve.

On the 4th of September, Derek goes down to the corner Bodega, and buys a copy of the September Issue, Scarlett Johansson staring sultry back at him, wearing wine red lipstick reminding Derek of the first time he met Stiles.

When he makes it back upstairs, flipping through, and looking over Stiles' spread in wonder, the boy himself is waiting for him by his door.

"Do you like?"  Stiles asks with a grin.

Derek meets his eyes, waggling his brows.  "I like."

Stiles grabs his hand.  "Come with me."  Derek goes.  He would follow this boy anywhere.  They jump into a taxi, Stiles instructing the driver to take them to an address on Madison Avenue.

Stiles drags him into a building, Mahealani Technologies, emblazoned on the side.  Stiles winks at the receptionist who waves them into the security line, where Derek has a handheld metal detector shoved in some awkward places.  Pressing the button for the top floor, the elevator dings, and Stiles and he go along for a nice long ride.

"I'm guessing we're here to see Danny?"  Derek asks.

"No, what would make you think that?"  Stiles grins sarcastically, and Derek rolls his eyes.

"Why am I here?"  Derek questions, as the elevator opens to a lavish wood veneered reception area.

"Moral support."  Stiles says simply before dragging him through.  "Mr. Carver, my man!"  A pudgy nosed, jacked assistant, glares at Stiles with disdain, before lifting his phone, dialing.

"Danny, the model and author are here to see you."  Mr. Carver listens and nods, turning to Stiles.  "He'll see you now."

Stiles pushes through frosted glass doors to Danny's office, decorated in much the same way as the reception area.  "Stiles, Derek.  To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Stiles goes right to the point.  "I can't be your mistress anymore, Danny." 

Danny chuckles at Stiles' use of the feminine.  "It's know, I bought the magazine,"  He taps Stiles' issue of Vogue as it lays open on his desk.  "Congrats are in order."

Stiles grins.  "I'll remember to get you front row tickets to fashion week if I manage to make it back again." 

"I know you will, you're an amazing model."

Stiles blushes.  "I really am sorry."

Danny chuckles.  "It's fine, Stiles.  Like I said before, I could always find someone to do it for much less than what I was giving you."

Stiles laughs.  "Dude, you don't need to pay someone to fuck, people would line up to be wined and dined by you."

Danny scoffs.  "With my schedule?  I hardly have time to exercise anymore, let alone build up a relationship from scratch." 

Stiles taps a finger against his lip in thought.  "You should talk to your assistant, the one who keeps glaring daggers at me."

"Ethan?"

"Oh, is that Mr. Carver's name?"  A mischievous grin overtakes Stiles' face.

"He doesn't want me." Danny shakes his head, frowning.

"Are you kidding me, Danny?  That man is in love with you."  At Danny's wide eyes, Stiles scowls in frustration.  "Whenever I see him, he always threatens me with a very painful death if I ever blackmailed you.  On top of that, every time he would come over to drop off your work, he'd stare after you  like a goddamn puppy dog.  Not to mention how he looks at your ass; like he wants to build a temple dedicated to its worship.  Just ask him out, for both our sakes."  Stiles smirks.  "Besides, he looks like he can, and would gladly fuck you up against a wall."

"Shut up."  Danny blushes, slapping Stiles on the butt with a folder, making him yelp. 

Stiles winks before grabbing Derek by the shoulder.  "C'mon, let's go."

"Oh Stiles?"  Danny calls out.  "You can stay in the condo.  I don't use it anyway."

Stiles grins like the sun,  waves, and leaves the office, Derek trailing after.

Stiles wanders over to Mr. Carver's desk.  "Hey-o, Mr. Assistant man."

He looks at Stiles, over his laptop, with an annoyed expression.  "What do you want?"

"Just wanted to ask you something, Mr. Carver."

The man raises an eyebrow.   "What?"  He asks, long-sufferingly.

"Danny keeps calling out this name, 'Ethan,' in bed.  Do you happen to know who that is?"

Mr. Carver's expression slips from annoyed to shell shocked, and Derek assumes this is the infamous Ethan.

"Thought so.  Ta-ta."  Stiles waggles his fingers, flouncing away.  Derek sees Ethan mechanically get up from his chair, making his way over to Danny's office.

Derek laughs at Stiles.  "Danny didn't actually do that, did he?"

Stiles snorts.  "Pshh, if he did I would've kicked his tight ass right out of bed.  I'm so easily insulted."

Derek shakes his head fondly, before wrapping his arm around Stiles' shoulder.  "You're an alright guy Przemysław Stilinski."

"Oh, god, don't start.  You didn't even pronounce it right.  The P is silent."

Derek tries again, but Stiles clamps his hand over his mouth.  "Shh.  Don't even try."  He sighs dramatically.  "At least you have your good looks, if nothing else."  Stiles giggles and socks Derek's arm.

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"  Stiles skips away.  "Stiles, wait!  What does that even mean?!"  Derek chases after him.

The next day Stiles barges into his apartment, clutching his cell phone, tears running down his cheeks.  "I called my dad."

Derek pulls him in for a long hug.

They're on the couch, Stiles crunching away on some sticks of celery, as he recounts the conversation.  "He said he's proud of me, but I couldn't say anything back, because I'm not proud of me, you know?"

"He loves you, Stiles."

"I was so scared to call him."

"But you did."

"Yeah but I could hardly speak, I didn't know what to say, and I always know what to say."  Stiles frowns.

"He's your dad, he'll always love you no matter what."  Derek nudges his shoulder to Stiles'.  "Alot of people love you;  Isaac, Scott, Erica, Allison, Boyd, your Dad."  Derek takes a deep breath.  "Me."

Stiles looks at him.  "You love me?"

"Yeah."  Derek pulls him in to a hug.  "I do, I love you a lot, you crazy little fuck.  You're my best friend."  Stiles snorts into his neck.

"You sure know how to make a guy feel better."

"Hey!  I am the king of cuddles."  Derek argues.

"You are."  Stiles pulls away, looking into Derek's eyes.  "A regular old puppy dog."

"No, that's Scott." 

Stiles shrugs.  "Eh, can't argue with that."

Eventually Erica invites the whole gang over for a celebratory party.  Stiles makes amazing avocado soy smoothies that Allison chugs down like water.  Derek can't blame her, they taste so much better than the deep green one he poured out for Derek weeks before.

Erica digs up some old footage of Stiles walking the walk on the runway, and they watch, throwing popcorn at the television to Erica's snarls about butter stains, when Stiles does something particularly showy.  Derek spends the whole time with his arm wrapped around Stiles' shoulder, his head resting against Derek's.

Derek wakes up in the middle of the night to find Stiles missing from the puppy pile.  He extricates himself from Boyd's arm around his waist, and goes to find him. 

Derek locates Stiles on the balcony, staring up at the night sky, watching the moon.

"Hey."  He greets, trying not to startle the boy.

Stiles smiles, and stretches his hand out, urging Derek to take it.  They look out at the night together before Stiles hand tightens around his own.  Turning to look questioningly at Stiles, Derek's mouth is captured in the sweetest kiss he's ever had.  He immediately kisses back, wrapping his arms tight around Stiles, pulling him closer.  Stiles deepens the kiss, and it turns filthy, his tongue stroking along Derek's pallet, as Derek can do nothing but moan.  When Stiles' hips settle along his, their burgeoning erections press together, making both of them groan.  Eventually Stiles pulls away, taking a deep breath.

"Wow."  Derek says, thumbing the faint scar tissue above Stiles' lip.

Stiles nods, lost for words.

"That was, wow, umm..."  Derek barely manages to say.

Stiles gulps, going cross eyed as he stares at Derek's mouth.  "We should..."

"Yeah."  Derek agrees, before capturing Stiles mouth again in a long involved kiss, as the moon, stars, and city lights smile down upon them.

Derek knows everything's going to be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interesting article concerning heroin addiction from the experience of a former addict - http://www.cracked.com/personal-experiences-1306-5-unexpected-things-i-learned-from-being-heroin-addict.html
> 
> Personally, I find it hilarious that Giorgio Armani sells an orange makeup correcter even though the man himself looks like a bottle of fake tan exploded all over his everything.
> 
> Comment if you liked! You'll make my day :)

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for present alcohol abuse, past heroin abuse, and prostitution.


End file.
